Tend and Defend
790 Words
Tend and Defend~
Sethlyan Callan
Glenayre, Aleron
Later that afternoon, Seth propped on his elbow as Isobel rummaged in the basket. Sunlight from the meadow backlit appealing curves beneath the white silk shift her modesty demanded he leave on her. It left little to the imagination, but he saw no reason to tell her.
“Here it is. Milo says it’s your favorite.” She held up a tin of blueberry pie.
The day could not get any better.
“Sit yerself down, wife,” he drawled and patted the blanket. “I’ll share the spoils with ye.”
“Since you mention spoils…” Isobel lifted a spoonful of golden-crusted blueberry perfection to his mouth. “There’s some explaining in order about the dowry tallies.”
“If there’s a discrepancy, I’ll sort it out with the rhi. No need to worry yourself.”
“Calum gave me a runaway fund,” she said, with no remark about talking with his mouth full.
They were going to suit just fine. “Silver enough to buy my way out of any circumstance, if I wished to return to Monaughty.”
Calum Iverach was no more trusting than his sisters.
“I added it to the strongbox in your study,” she said.
There was one key besides his. Renny and Milo held it in safekeeping.
“Keep it. He meant it for you.” Whatever the amount, it rankled his pride. “You may want a new gown or a piece of jewelry Glenayre’s coffers can’t afford.”
“You said it first, Seth. What was mine is ours. Glenayre is ours to tend and defend.”
Glenayre could use the tending a bit of Iverach silver could offer. And she had actually called him by his name.
“How much is this discrepancy I’m going to have to explain?”
Isobel spooned up another bite. “Ten thousand silver deira.”
“Ten thou—” He choked on piecrust. It was a hundred times what he would’ve earned from selling Jonquil. “Because you decided not to bolt and run on me?”
She sat back on her heels. He watched some of the joy they’d made together leave her.
“You’ve seen how it is,” she said. “I carry the past that made me. I startle easily. Nightmares wake me in a panic.” She sighed. “You aren’t to blame for that.”
“Neither are you,” he said quietly.
Isobel lowered her head. He feared he’d squandered what ground he’d gained. When she looked up at him again, a new tenderness softened her eyes.
“You’re a good man, Seth Callan,” she said. “Kind and true.”
He intended to be, from here out. “Don’t forget clever.”
That brought back her smile. “And clever.”
“Rakishly handsome?”
“And humble to a fault.”
“And at the moment, sweaty and ready for a swim.” He scooped one last taste of blueberry pie with his fingers. “You can wade in at the edge if you like.”
He took off up the rocks, cocky enough he was sure she would be watching and not so grown-up he could resist showing off. He curled his toes against the rough edge of a boulder and dove into the pond. He swam underwater until his lungs burned for air, then arched up and surfaced.
And heard a splash behind him.
Ripples circled outward from beneath the boulder, and Isobel’s shift hung snagged on a hawthorn branch. She’d fallen in. A woman who’d never learned to ride surely couldn’t swim either. He made for the ripples with rising panic. He’d managed to drown his new wife before he had her even a fortnight.
A glimpse of pale skin beneath the surface stalled his frantic strokes. Isobel bobbed up in front of him, grinning and treading water pretty as you please.
“I’m a strong swimmer,” she said.
“Are you now?” He grinned back, as if she hadn’t just scared the wits out of him. “A race then, to the spill.”
Isobel ducked and was off again, darting underwater like a fish. He dove and chased after her. He surfaced to a sight seared into his memory for all time. Isobel stood beneath the cascading water, arms outstretched and long red hair trailing down her back. She was a faery goddess, a nymph from the watery depths, and she was his.
All right, so maybe he was besotted. He swam up beside her and stood beneath the spill.
“The water is so warm,” she said. “It’s wonderful.”
“It’s the black rock. The sun warms the rock and—”
“The water takes on the heat.” Isobel gathered her wet hair and pulled it over her shoulder.
And he saw the scars.
Naught could have readied him. Lines crisscrossed her back, some faded to dusky tan, and others feathered to white, from belts and crops and what else he didn’t want to think. His hand moved of its own accord, and his fingertip traced one pale scar.
“Something shifted in me then. Something sleeping woke. Isobel and Aleron were entwined from that day on. Both beautiful and unique, vibrant with promise, and scarred by the hand that tried to rule them. I knew protecting them was what I was born to do.”
“I’m sorry. I sometimes forget how ugly—” Isobel turned to hide what he’d already seen.
“Sorry for what? Surviving?”
Shame kept her eyes averted, but he pulled her close.
“You are safe here, Isobel Callan,” he said. “No one will ever hurt you like that again.”
Chapter 29
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